Messalina: Devourer of Men

“Do any shopping today?” he asks in a husbandly way and grins with the same self-confidence I noticed in my apartment.
“Yes, I did. And thank you for the loan.”
“It wasn’t a loan. A lady needs her things.”
He says it in a way to leave no room for discussion and I don’t want to spoil the moment. Luckily the nightstand is only a step away, because my legs are about to give. I open the top drawer and lift out a small bag. “I discovered a nice boutique that reminded me of you.”
I toss it to him. He reads the receipt and laughs. Reaching inside, he takes out several small jars of body paint, two brushes—and several boxes of condoms.
“Since you’re the artist,” I say, kneeling beside him on the bed, “I figured I’ll be your canvas tonight instead of your bulletin board.”
He smiles up at me, making my heart race, and strokes my thigh with a hair-tipped brush while his other hand manipulates the small paint jars like Chinese worry balls. I let this action distract me and watch the way his fingers move. They are so agile. He lays the jars and a brush down on the bed.
“Paint me, Jared,” I say in a voice I don’t even recognize as my own, it’s so thick and husky. His eyes seem to turn darker as he removes his jacket and takes off his shoes and socks.
“Lie down on your back,” he orders gently and I obey. The little jars roll against me from where I lie on the mattress and the glass containers cool my fevered skin.
I watch him cross the room to lay his jacket neatly over the back of a chair. He removes his tie and sets it aside while keeping one brush in his mouth like a long filter cigarette. As he approaches, his mouth wiggles the brush contemplatively. Standing at the foot of the bed and unbuttoning his shirt, he isn’t looking at me but at my body, his canvas.
I try not to get self-conscious under his scrutiny, but I invited it. I am allowing someone to analyze every inch of me when I would rather fade into the background.
He rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and climbs onto the bed, straddling my legs. He has the colors red, blue, orange, yellow, and black to work with. Situating the containers, he places them on top of my pussy mound. He removes the lids and swirls the brush end in his mouth to get it moist.
After dipping into the black, he starts painting just above the center of my breasts. He strokes down in a curve, stopping at my pubic hairline, then he does it again. With a few simple strokes he’s created the silhouette of a woman, arms outstretched, as she dives between my breasts, her buttocks curve just above my navel, which doubles as her sex opening.
I try to regulate my breathing to facilitate his brush strokes and it’s hard, very hard. I groan in spite of myself to prevent my passing out. Jared covers my breasts with kisses to moisten them before painting a sickle moon on my right breast and a fiery sun on the left.
Scooting down further, just enough for him to part my legs slightly, he paints a bonfire with its source coming from the center of my pussy. The satiny texture of the brush and the wet, stickiness of the paint assault my senses. I wiggle my toes, and the movement causes me to brush against his stiff cock. He sucks in his breath, and as sweet torture for my moving, he places more feathery strokes along the top of my thighs.
The small jars of paint precariously balanced on my pelvis make a tinkling sound as I tremble. He grabs them and holds them in his palm before moving away from me.